


We are merely players, performers and portrayers

by caranfindel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Although probably not what you had in mind if you're looking for Disney fic, Angst, Case Fic, Community: spn_j2_bigbang, Disney World & Disneyland, Gen, Post-Episode s06e10 Caged Heat, Season/Series 04, Season/Series 06, Soulless Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-04-24 04:56:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19166269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caranfindel/pseuds/caranfindel
Summary: A season 6 casefic. Dean and RoboSam end up in Florida again after "Chained Heat" and before "Appointment in Samarra." Dean's working two cases - the monster he and Sam are hunting at Disneyworld, and the case of Sam's missing soul. And he's got a lot of soul-searching to do. Which sounds like a bad joke, but his life has turned into a bad joke, so. It fits. With flashbacks to season 4, soon after 4.03, "In The Beginning."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2019 spn_j2_bigbang. Huge thanks to my artist, [amberdreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amberdreams/pseuds/Amberdreams), who plucked my unloved fic from the reject pile and produced some truly squeal-worthy work - please go visit the art masterpost. (Disclaimer: if any Disney lawyers come calling, I'm going to tell them I don't know her.) And equally huge thanks to my ever-lovely beta, [themegalosaurus,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/themegalosaurus/pseuds/themegalosaurus) and to [MadBadAndPlaid.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadBadAndPlaid/pseuds/MadBadAndPlaid) who went above and beyond in terms of editing, questioning, and poking me with a sharp stick. Thanks also to Tumblr user iheartmyfandoms, who kindly provided the Norwegian translation when I started working on this fic (YEARS ago) and probably doesn't even remember.
> 
> Now available in Russian thanks to Impala65!  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/19872337

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/housefullofbooks/48091076996/in/dateposted/)

**_2010_**

Dean wakes with a start at the the _thunk_ of the car door closing. He's kind of surprised he actually fell asleep. He doesn't normally sleep well when Sam's driving, and even less so with this particular version of Sam at the wheel. He checks his watch and is shocked to see his nap lasted several hours. It's a tribute to the effectiveness of Jack Daniels, but it also explains why he's got such a godawful crick in his neck. Dammit. How does Sam not understand that _do you want to head out in the morning_ actually means _I want to sleep before we head out?_ And that _no, that's fine, I can drive, I don't need to sleep_ isn't an appropriate answer?

Real Sam got that.

No, not past tense. Real Sam _gets_ that.

RoboSam, on the other hand, drives through the night and doesn't bother to wake Dean when he stops at a gas station. The keys are in the ignition, so Dean pockets them and climbs stiffly out of the car, stretching and popping his neck as he heads toward the building. It's warmer than he expected, the air heavy and humid for December. He peeks at the newspaper rack next to the door to check their location and stops in his tracks, confused. He's still standing there when Sam comes out. 

"Sam, why are we in Valdosta, Georgia?"

Sam hands Dean a water bottle and takes a long drink from his own. "Because we need gas? Because Valdosta is a convenient stop on I-75?"

"Goddammit. Why are we in Georgia at all? We were on our way to California. How is Georgia a convenient stop on the way to California?"

"California?" Sam blinks at him for a second, then laughs. "No, dude, we're going to Disney _world._ Disney _land_ is the one in California. I told you, two employees were mysteriously killed at Disney _world._ Which is in Florida."

Like Dean keeps track of which Disney is where. He just assumed, because… well, because his brother would never have accepted a case in Florida without being talked into it. 

"Florida? You're okay with that?"

RoboSam shrugs. Of course he's okay with Florida, in the same way he's okay with everything. "We don't have to go if you don't want to. We can hand this one off to someone else."

"No, it's not that. I'm fine with it. I just didn't think you would be."

"Oh, okay." Sam folds his arms and gets that pissy look on his face. The look that isn't really _Sam's_ pissy look, which makes it worse. "So it's not that _you_ don't want to go to Florida. It's just that you want _me_ to not want to go to Florida." 

_Because your real brother wouldn't want to._ It's like he's waiting for Dean to say it. But Dean's not going to give him the satisfaction, considering how Sam acted after their last conversation about getting his soul back. He'd told Dean he didn't want it back, stomped off and refused to discuss it further, refused to admit Dean was right. They've come to an uneasy truce, if you can call ignoring the elephant in the room a truce. Dean hasn't capitulated, he just temporarily stopped telling Sam how wrong he is.

He shoves the keys into Sam's hand. "I gotta take a piss. Get some gas and then get the a/c running, but when I come back, you're riding shotgun. I'm driving."

And it feels wrong, it feels sneaky and disloyal, dragging Sam's body to the one place he never wanted to go again. But they're on their way to Florida, because no one's here to stop them.

 

~~~

(At some point in the last few years, Dean's life turned into a bad joke.

_Two hunters walk into a bar. The bartender asks for their order, and the first hunter says "Whiskey for me. My brother here will have some demon blood."_

_The bartender says, "Hey, we don't serve your type here, fella."_

_The second hunter says "No, it's okay, it doesn't matter if it's not my blood type. I'm just gonna drink it.")_

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/housefullofbooks/48091111243/in/photostream/) 

**_2008_**

 

"Florida?" Sam's mouth twists around the word, like just saying it makes him uncomfortable.

"Yeah. Florida. You got a problem with that?" Which is kind of shitty, to be fair, because he _knows_ Sam has a problem with that. He knows exactly what Sam's problem is. Except he doesn't; not really. He knows something awful happened in Broward County. He knows he died a lot. He knows Sam lived the same day over and over again, and finally got the Trickster to end the cycle. But other than that, Sam has mostly kept infuriatingly quiet about it.

Just like he's keeping quiet now; gnawing his thumbnail and refusing to look at Dean and not saying a goddamn word.

"Cas says it's a seal." 

"Yeah, and that's all he says. Why's he being so vague about it? _Something in a church that doesn't belong there?_ What's that supposed to mean? What are we getting ourselves into? You don't think this is a little weird?"

Dean shrugs. Everything about Castiel is a little weird. "If you want to argue with an angel, go on ahead. I don't think it's gonna do a lot of good. Not based on my experience." 

"Yeah, I know," Sam sighs. 

"So, you up for this?"

"I'm good. It's fine."

"You don't have to go, you know. I can do it without you."

Sam's eyes widen. "No," he answers quickly. "I'm going with you." Because the only thing that freaks him out more than going to Florida with Dean is Dean going to Florida without him. Dean should feel guilty about using that against him, but the truth is, he's got a buttload of his own issues right now, and keeping Sam happy isn't exactly at the top of his to-do list.

"Then get your shit. We're rolling in fifteen."

  [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/housefullofbooks/48091172762/in/photostream/)

**_2010_**

 

For the "happiest place on earth," Disneyworld kind of sucks. It's hot even though it's December, it's crowded, a bottle of water costs four bucks, and the minions at the front gate not only want them to buy a ticket, but they give them a hard time about the suits.

"I'm sorry, sir, but adults aren't allowed to wear costumes in the park," the gatekeeper _(Sarah from Waukegan IL,_ her nametag happily proclaims) chirps at Dean.

God, it's the stupid black suits and black ties. Yes, he and Sam do look like the Blues Brothers, but everything in their duffels is splattered in blood, or barbecue sauce, or some combination of both, and these old black suits and ties are the only ones that hide the stains. And Sam used to help take care of that kind of stuff but RoboSam doesn't care what tie he wears and Dean can't think about that right now because it causes a painful lump to rise in his throat, goddammit all.

The sunglasses don't help. Dean whips his off. "Listen, honey," he says. "I'm not in costume, and I'm not here to ride the rides. I'm a federal agent here on official business—"

Her supervisor, _Glen from Des Moines IA,_ interrupts him. "Sir, we would have been notified if anyone were visiting on official business. Now, I understand Men in Black is a fairly subtle costume, and the Men in Black franchise is not a Disney property. But we don't allow adults to wear _any_ character costumes in the park, Disney or not. It's to prevent guests from confusing other guests with actual cast members. Now, you can remove the jackets and ties, but we'll still need you to buy a park pass."

Dean sighs and hands Glen his card. "Here's number the number for the main office; you can talk to my supervisor—"

But Glen interrupts him again, waving the card back at him. "See, that's what I'm talking about. _James Page?_ You think I don't know who Jimmy Page is?" He stands up straighter, attempting and failing to pull himself up to Dean's height. "You're not getting in for free _and_ in costume. You can ditch the suit and buy a ticket like everyone else."

He can see Sam narrowing his eyes at the guy. Not his normal pissed-off look, but something cold and alien that doesn't look like Sam at all, that looks like some angry asshole just wearing his face. But for this, it works.

"Look," Sam hisses. He quickly flicks his own ID at the guy. "You can hassle us because we _happen_ to be wearing black suits and black ties, and Agent Page _happens_ to wear dark sunglasses, and he _happens_ to have the same name as some dried-up, has-been guitar player. And we can go discuss this with your boss, and your boss's boss, and your boss's boss's boss, and take it all the way up to the frozen carcass of Walt Disney himself. Or you can stop being a pompous little shit, let us in, and _keep your job."_ He takes one step closer to Glen from Des Moines and taps a finger against his name tag. "So what's it gonna be, Glen? You gonna let us do our jobs? Or are you ready to catch the next bus back to Des Moines?"

Glen from Des Moines retreats a step and makes a show of examining Agent Page's card again before shoving it into his pocket. He clears his throat, glances quickly at Sarah from Waukegan, and nods. "Sure, Agent. Agents. Sorry for the misunderstanding. Go on through. Let me know if you need any assistance."

Sam nods curtly back at him. "We will. Thanks." He turns on his heel and heads into the park. "Whenever you're ready, Agent Page," he calls over his shoulder.

Dean throws Glen and Sarah a sheepish _sorry my partner's an asshole_ smile, something that's becoming a regular and necessary part of his repertoire, and trots after Sam. 

They pass through the shadow of the giant silvery sphere of Spaceship Earth. Sam would have geeked out over it. There's no telling if he would have been more interested in the geometry or the contents, but he definitely would have loved it. That hurts too much to think about right now; it's something else to put aside and think about later. Or maybe never. 

"Dude," he says. "Dried-up, has-been guitar player? Seriously?"

"Got us in the gate, didn't it?" Sam says. "You should be glad I didn't give him time to read my badge. James Page and Robert Plant? It's like you're trying to get caught." 

Is it just RoboSam who has a problem with the creative aliases? Or has it been bothering Sam all along, but he never felt like he could say anything? Dammit. There's another train of thought Dean's gotta shut down real fast.

"Chill, man," Dean says. "It's Disneyworld. Families. Kids. Don't draw attention. We're gonna end up the next topic of discussion on that staff website of yours."

"Somehow I don't think _angry MiB cosplayer_ is going to replace _weird deaths at Maelstrom ride_ as the busiest topic on the Disney forums." Sam's face twists from angry to disdainful. "And remember, they call them _cast members,_ not staff."

"Jesus Christ. _Cast members._ All the world's a stage, man."

Sam chuckles. "That should be your next fake ID. William Shakespeare. I can be Francis Bacon."

"Shakespeare? I was quoting the Rush song," Dean lies, because fuck if he's going to let RoboSam make snide little college-boy jokes about someone who isn't who people think he is. _"All the world's indeed a stage,"_ he sings, in his perfect Geddy Lee imitation that always made Sam wince, and hopefully hurts RoboSam's ears too. _"And we are merely players, performers and portrayers…"_ He trails off, because the next line is _each another's audience, inside a gilded cage._ Seriously, goddamn it all.

Sam seems oblivious to whatever might be going through Dean's head. He unfolds the map he picked up at the entrance. "So… Norway… we go straight to the second lake, and then turn left." 

 

~~~

 

The park is decorated for Christmas, even though it's at least 90 degrees in the shade. Florida is a great place to be if you're lying on a beach. Prowling through Disneyworld in a black suit, not so much, and Dean's relieved when they finally duck into the air-conditioned gift shop in the Norway pavilion. They're greeted by a pretty young woman with long blonde braids and a subtle lilting accent. She's wearing some Disneyfied version of a traditional Norwegian dress. Her nametag informs them that she's Marta from Oslo, Norway and that she speaks Norwegian. 

"Agent Plant, FBI," Sam says, flashing his ID too quickly for Marta to read. "I'm looking for anyone who might be able to talk about some weird things going on around here recently."

Marta's blue eyes open wide. "You mean the men… I, ah, I'm afraid I can't… I'm not supposed to… I'll need to get my supervisor." She turns away to murmur into a telephone, then turns back to them with that same wide blue stare. "She'll be here momentarily."

Dean leans on her counter with a practiced smile. "Great, thanks. But while we wait… we're looking into the employee deaths in this area. Excuse me, I mean cast member deaths. Have you noticed anything unusual in the Norway area recently? Did you know the men who were killed?"

"Yes, but I'm really not supposed to… I mean, they told us to…"

Marta's stammering answer is interrupted by the arrival of a tall woman with a smile as carefully crafted as Dean's. "Marta," she says, "Are these the gentlemen you called me about?" Her eyes flick over them, appraising. "I'm Henrietta Meeks, manager of the Norway pavilion. How can I help you?"

She doesn't look like she wants to be charmed, so Dean stands up straight and puts on his serious face. "Agent Page, FBI. We have some questions about the deaths of Frederick Anderson and William Lund." _Henrietta from St. Paul, MN_ turns out to be the type of person who does want to inspect their IDs, but luckily, not the type of person familiar with the members of Led Zeppelin. She cuts her eyes quickly at Marta, who immediately busies herself with something behind the counter, and leads Sam and Dean past a display of princess dolls into a quiet corner.

"I wasn't aware we had investigators on site today," she says, crossing her arms. "Normally this type of activity would be arranged through the main office."

"Sorry about that," Dean says. "Someone must have messed up. This shouldn't take long. We've just got a few questions."

"Everyone involved has given a statement already." 

"Right. We know you've spoken to the local authorities, but we're the Feds, and we've got a few questions of our own."

"Well, as I said, normally these kind of requests go through the main office. There's protocol, you know." Henrietta Meeks stares at Dean with flinty disapproving eyes, but she's no match for RoboSam.

"Yes, you _did_ say that," Sam snaps, glowering down at her. "Which almost makes it sound like you're refusing to speak to the FBI. You're not actually refusing to speak to the FBI, are you, Ms. Meeks?"

Her expression switches quickly to something slightly less hostile. "No, of course not. I was just saying—"

"Yes. You've made your point. And now we'd like you to answer some questions."

But in the end, she doesn't give them anything they didn't already have. No reason to suspect foul play, the deaths occurred at night after the park had closed, no one disliked the two men who were killed. The deaths have all the markings of a couple of unfortunate accidents, weeks apart, that resulted in two employees — _cast members_ — falling into the machinery of the Maelstrom log flume ride. Reports of a foul stench near the ride have been greatly exaggerated and were undoubtedly due to stagnant water. Nothing to see here; good day.

Meeks escorts them back to the front door, flashes another angry look at Marta, and retreats into the back of the store. Probably to call the "main office," and they should probably hightail it out of there before someone less susceptible to pressure shows up. But as Dean turns to leave, he hears a soft voice.

"Agent?" Marta is tapping at Sam's sleeve. "You dropped this. It looked like it might be important."

Sam squints at the folded paper she's trying to hand him, something he absolutely did not drop, and breaks into a shark-like grin. "Very important. Thank you, Miss." He palms the paper, gives her a wink, and slips out the door, leaving an astonished Dean to trail after him.

Once they're out of view, Dean smacks Sam's arm. "Dude. Tell me that chick did not just give you her phone number!"

Sam smiles. "Don't act so surprised. It wouldn't be the first time." But when he opens the note, he frowns, and hands it to Dean.

_I need to talk to you about the men who died, but not here, I'll get in too much trouble. I'll be off soon — please meet me in Morocco at 8:00._

"Well." Dean says. "It's just after 7:00 now."

"Guess we're hanging around for a while."

"Guess so. Where the hell is Morocco, anyway? And don't say Africa."

Sam laughs, pulls out his map, and motions to their left. 

They make their way around a pack of slow-moving parents pushing loaded-down strollers. Sam glares a little too hard at them, and Dean gives him a quick shake of the head. _Chill out, man._ They walk clockwise around the central lagoon, past China, Germany, and Italy. The American pavilion gives Dean a little twinge, a memory of pre-teen Sam saying something about how cool it would be to see the animatronic presidents there, way before his hatred of all things Florida. And there's a probably a Samimatronic joke in there somewhere, but it's not a funny one. 

~~~

 

_(Knock knock._

_Who's there?_

_Sam._

_Sam who?_

_Just kidding. I'm not really Sam. But I sure had you fooled, didn't I?)_

 [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/housefullofbooks/48091111243/in/photostream/)

**_2008_**

 

Sam's been silent for at least half an hour, ever since the _Welcome to Florida_ sign, and it pisses Dean off for some reason he can't really put his finger on. If he could just get inside Sam's brain, full of organized, neatly labeled little boxes, could he yank out the one that says _Shit That Happened in Florida_ and toss it out the window? And while he was in there, could he get rid of _Freaky Psychic Shit_ and _The Dark Road Sam Is On, According to Cas_ and _Asking Dean About Hell?_ Just open his brother's skull and dig in there and start rifling through his careful little stacks of boxes? Would he use a saw, dull and rusted and bloodstained, to open Sam's skull, or just squeeze it at the right spot and crack it open with his bare hands?

And then he needs to stop thinking about opening Sam's skull, needs to stop imagining that right fucking _now,_ so instead he does the next worst thing.

"What did you do with me?" he asks. "When we were here, I mean. You know. Broward County. What did you do when I was dead?"

Sam won't look at him. "I told you. I woke up when you died, and everything started over." 

Except the day it didn't. Because there was one last death; there was one Wednesday after an endless string of Tuesdays. He knows that much.

"No, I mean the last time I died, when you _didn't_ wake up. What did you do with my body?"

"Why does it matter?"

"I don't know. Just curious."

"If you're asking if a gave you a hunter's funeral, the answer is no, I didn't. Just like I didn't when… in Indiana. I couldn't salt and burn you. I knew I had to get you back."

"So you buried me. Where?"

"It doesn't matter, okay? None of it was real. The Trickster put it all inside my head and none of it really happened, so it doesn't matter."

"That's right. None of it really happened. You need to let it go. I'm not dead. You're not dealing with the Trickster again."

"It's not that easy."

"Yeah, it is, Sam. It's exactly that easy," Dean says, gesturing at himself. "Me. Not dead. Not on the countdown to Hell." He waves at Sam. "You. Not reliving the same day over and over. Not trying to break my deal. Not trying get me out of Hell. It's _over,_ man. I'm alive and kicking, and there's no reason to freak out over fucking Florida. Just let it all go." 

Truth is, he wants to know more, but if he pushes it, Sam might just say _you show me yours and I'll show you mine,_ and Dean's not gonna show his. There are things in Dean's head that he's never, absofuckinglutely _ever,_ going to reveal to Sam.

They're an hour past the state line before Sam speaks again. 

"He wouldn't let us leave Florida," he says quietly. "Or maybe it was just you he was blocking. Maybe he would have let me leave if I'd gone alone. I don't know. I never tried it without you until… you know. After. But until then, any time I got us out of that town, any time we headed for the border, he would stop us somehow. A semi would cross the median, or someone would throw a rock off an overpass. There was a train, once. Came out of nowhere."

The conversation more uncomfortable than Dean expected it would be. Of all the questions he has about that time in Florida, _how exactly did I die?_ is suddenly not the one he wants answered right now. Not when it makes his brother look like he's reliving the whole damn thing. Still, Sam's finally talking about Broward County, and if he doesn't take advantage of it now, it might never happen again. 

"So, a semi would hit us head-on and then, boom, you'd wake up in the hotel room?"

"Yeah, that." But Sam took a beat too long to respond, and it makes the back of Dean's neck go all prickly.

"Every time?"

Another pause. "I mean, yeah, it was usually instantaneous. And usually you were the only one hurt, and I was just there watching." Sam swallows hard. "But then, one time, I guess he got pissed because I wasn't doing what he wanted. The semi. That one actually took a long time. It hit us, and we were both there, you know, trapped in the wreckage, broken bones, internal injuries, the works. You were unconscious and bleeding out, but obviously you were still alive, because we were still there. So all I could do was wait for you to die. Except you didn't." He pauses again and takes a deep breath.

"I heard a siren, and I knew an ambulance was coming, but it didn't matter, I knew you were still gonna die. I knew there was nothing anyone could do to stop it, and all I could think was, _Please let him die before they get here._ Because if they rescued you, that would just prolong it, and I needed it to end. I needed to get out of it and start the next day. They fired up the jaws of life and tried to cut us out, and the whole time I was praying, _Don't let him wake up, don't make him suffer, just please let him die._ And about half an hour later, you… I woke up."

Dean turns and stares at him, watches him run a hand down his face and leave it over his mouth.

"Fuck, Sam."

"Yeah." Sam goes quiet again, and Dean's a lot less curious about Broward County than he was a few minutes ago.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/housefullofbooks/48091172762/in/photostream/) 

**_2010_**

 

The Japan pavilion is just past the American area, and Dean's tempted to cruise through the gift shop to check out the anime. But Sam makes a bitchface when Dean slows to peer through the door, because that's a Sam thing that RoboSam maintained, and what are the odds Disneyworld would have the kind of stuff he's interested in anyway? So they walk straight through to the Morocco pavilion. When they get there, Sam says "wait here" and heads toward a small greenish kiosk in the neighboring France area. He returns with a beer in one hand and some kind of frozen drink in the other. In a plastic martini glass, for fuck's sake. Sam hands Dean the beer and ignores his raised eyebrows, taking a sip of the pale yellow concoction in the martini glass.

"Dude. I'm embarrassed to even be seen with you."

"What?" Sam takes another drink. "It's hot. This is cold. And full of vodka."

"Yeah, whatever." Dean takes a drink of his beer, which is pretty good even though it's some weird brand he's never heard of. "Just don't forget to extend your pinky finger."

"Like this?" Sam raises his middle finger, flashing a full-on dimpled grin, and it's so close, so much like Dean's actual little brother that his stomach does a warm little flip. Then Sam spies something over Dean's shoulder. His expression goes predatory, eyes narrowed, and the moment's gone. Dean turns around and sees what caught Sam's focus: a young woman with a long blonde ponytail, wearing shorts and a t-shirt, slipping through a tiled archway in the Morocco pavilion. It takes him a second to recognize her as the plainclothes version of Marta.

She's perched nervously on a bench in a quiet alley when they catch up with her. Out of costume, she seems like a completely different person. 

"Drinking on the job, agents?" Even her accent seems to have disappeared along with the long dress and braids. She smiles, but her eyes are flicking anxiously around her.

"Well, we _are_ off the clock," Sam says, setting his drink on the ground. "Unless you have something to share with us?" He plants one hand on the wall above her and leans in, looming over her and also effectively hiding her from anyone who might be passing by, though Dean suspects that wasn't his intent. 

It seems to calm her nerves, though. "You were asking about Freddie Anderson and William Lund," she says. "And I imagine no one's telling you anything. They're not going to. Not on the record, anyway."

"But _off_ the record?" Dean asks.

Marta sighs. "Off the record, William Lund was my uncle. Well, my great uncle. My grandma's brother. And I don't think it was an accident."

Sam starts to ask her a question, but Dean steps in. "We're sorry for your loss," he says. A flash of annoyance flits across Sam's face at the interruption, and Christ, this isn't right. Sam's supposed to be the one who jumps in with the touchy-freely stuff. He's not supposed to ignore the victim's feelings, let alone get pissy when Dean pauses to offer the barest minimum of condolences. 

Sam resumes his line of questioning. "So, why do you think it wasn't an accident?"

Marta chews her bottom lip. "You know what? This is nutso. I don't even know why I'm bothering you. I should go." 

She starts to stand, but Dean gently rests a hand on her shoulder. "Nutso is our specialty. I swear to God, whatever you're going to tell us, it won't be the weirdest thing we've ever heard." He sits on the bench next to her and gives her his warmest _you can trust me_ smile, and it may not be the puppy-dog eyes, but it works.

"Okay, but listen," she says, "I don't believe any of this, you understand? I'm not crazy, and I know this is just some weird old Norwegian superstition." Marta stops to touch a simple chain at her throat. "After Freddie was killed, Uncle Will was acting pretty paranoid. He was convinced he was going to be killed too. He left instructions about what to do if he died. But they're bizarre."

"Bizarre how?" Dean prods.

"I heard the other uncles talking about it. You're gonna laugh, but…." Marta trails off with an embarrassed smile. "He wanted them to tie his big toes together." She rolls her eyes self-consciously. "I know, right? Some tradition from the old country, I guess. But he insisted they do it if he died. He talked about it a lot. So I think maybe he knew something. Maybe something was wrong with the ride, or someone made a threat, you know?" Marta touches her chain again and pulls up a pendant that had been resting beneath her shirt, a small circle of dark metal. "The uncles made everyone wear one of these. They didn't really explain why. Something about luck or respect or protection. I don't know. Old country stuff."

Dean looks up at Sam, and is surprised to see he looks thoughtful rather than amused, examining Marta's pendant. Or using it as an excuse to examine her tits. Hard to tell. "Do you know anyone who would want to hurt your uncle?" Dean asks.

"Not at all. He was a sweetheart. So was Freddie. Everyone loved them."

"Have you noticed anything unusual in the area where he was killed?" Sam asks. "Cold spots, odd smells, strange noises? Anything at all, even if you didn't think it would be related."

"Well, people must have told you about the smell, right? That's one thing he was so freaked out about. He kept talking about the stench near the Maelstrom at night, and I've gotta say, he wasn't wrong about that. It still reeks sometimes, especially at night. Now, I know Meeks won't tell you jack shit. She'll give you the official Disney line, _it's not uncommon for water rides to develop a temporary stagnant pool which can result in unpleasant but harmless odors,_ blah blah blah, but it's worse than stagnant water. It's like something rotting. Something dead."

"Okay," Sam nods. "See, that's something. That might be helpful."

"I can't imagine how," Marta says, with a bitter smile. "But I just hate that Meeks and the rest of them are trying to make everything go away. Like, it doesn't matter that people died. Nothing matters but keeping up that Disney magic. Everything's gotta stay perfect, no matter how fake it is."

Speaking of maintaining the magic… . "Your accent," Dean says. "You don't have it any more."

"Oh. That. Yeah." She laughs nervously. "I really was born in Oslo, but my family moved to the U.S. when I was a year old. It's just that you get a better position if they think you're actually from Norway, you know? Marty from Clearwater gets to work in the kitchen, or on the rides. Marta from Oslo gets behind the register in the gift shop."

"Your secret's safe with us," Sam says, as he pulls a card out of his pocket and hands it to her. "If you think of anything else, give me a call, okay?" His smirk is all kinds of wrong, but Marta doesn't know what Sam's real smile is supposed to look like, so it probably looks normal to her. She takes out her phone and snaps a picture of the card, then pulls a pen from her purse and scribbles a number on the back of it. "And if _you_ have any more questions for _me,_ you should probably text me. I can't really talk in front of Meeks, but you can text me any time." She hands the card back to Sam, and he slips it back into his pocket with another not-Sam smile. 

Marta rises from the bench, nodding at the plastic martini glass Sam left on the ground. "That Grey Goose slushie is a damn good choice. Think I'm gonna go have one myself. If you're done with me, that is."

"We are," says Dean. "Thanks for your help."

"No, thank _you,"_ she replies. "Uncle Will was a sweet old guy. Freddie too. Neither of them deserved this. I hope you find out what happened to them."

Once she's out of sight, Dean downs the rest of his beer while Sam finishes his now-melted Grey Goose slushie. "So, what are you thinking?"

"The toe thing," Sam muses. "It sounds familiar. I think it's something."

"Yeah, something kinky." 

"No, seriously. I've heard of that. It's something. I'm just not sure what. And I'm pretty sure her pendant was iron."

"Well, okay. Protection against something. Maybe those old uncles knew what they were talking about. Probably worth a visit, then. See what the uncles were worried about. And we need to poke around that ride, too."

"Yeah, but not tonight," Sam says, loosening his tie. "I've had all the Disney I can stand for today, and I don't really want to run into Meeks again."

"That's the most intelligent thing you've said all day," Dean says with a grin. Sam smiles back, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

They loop through the Norway pavilion again on their way back to the park entrance for a quick look, but nothing catches their eye other than a guy with a service dog that growls at Sam. Because of course it does. That dog in St. Louis didn't like the shifter version of its neighbor, and this one probably doesn't like this soulless excuse for Dean's brother, either.

For a second, Dean imagines the dog will lunge at Sam and catch his arm in its teeth; maybe it will even peel off a long strip of skin and reveal him as a shifter. And then the shifter will laugh and say _fine, you caught me; Sammy's been out of Hell for a year and a half and I can't believe I got away with it for so long._ Dean will jump him and find something on him, the key to a hotel room or a storage unit or something. He'll call Cas, who'll actually show up for once, and they'll zap over there and they'll find Sam, the _real_ Sam, trapped and maybe tied up and maybe hurt, but not dead and not in Hell. He'll smile up at Dean, that dopey grin that RoboSam can't ever quite duplicate, and he'll be there, Dean's stupid brave little brother, heart and soul, in one piece all along.

But none of that happens. What happens is they make their way through the crowds, back to the Impala, and drive into Orlando.

Once there, they turn down International Drive just for the spectacle, but neither is interested in the candy-colored _Family-Friendly! Pets Welcome!_ hotels, chain restaurants, and tourist attractions. "It looks like Las Vegas threw up on Branson," Sam says, and that's not far from the truth. They eat thin, greasy drive-through burgers and then find a decidedly family-unfriendly motel on a quieter side street, next to Ricky's Discount Liquor Warehouse and across the street from Orlando's Best Bungee Fun.

"I figure you're going to sleep, so I thought I'd go get a drink or something," Sam says, as he dumps his duffel bag on the bed he won't be using and peels off the Fed suit. "Or did you want to go with?"

That kind of non-invitation can only mean one thing. "Just don't bring your _something_ back here, okay?" Dean mutters. "I want you to be wearing pants the next time I see you." Sam laughs but doesn't dispute Dean's basic hypothesis, so there you go. He hangs the suit in the closet and stands for a minute, unfamiliarly big and muscular in his briefs and socks. 

Sam gets skinny when he stops hunting and training. Dean is just the opposite; he goes soft around the middle if he stops. It doesn't happen often. He'll let go of the daily grind for a while when he gets badly hurt, or unusually sick, or when he spends a year playing house because it was the only thing his little brother asked of him before he threw himself into Hell, and fuck if he wasn't going to at least give it a shot. But Sam's got the metabolism of a goddamn freight train, and when he stops hunting and training, he gets skinny. Sam's not skinny now. The old suit jacket looked strained over his new muscles. He's obviously spent his own gap year working harder than ever, and Dean wonders again what his brother was up to for that year. And then forces himself to stop wondering, because he probably doesn't want to know.

Sam is still standing there, contemplating the black tie in his hand. "Guess it's time to get rid of these," he says, "if they're gonna make people think we're wearing costumes." He tosses the tie into the wastebasket and Dean has to stop himself from lurching forward and stopping him, because that's not his, it's _Sam's_ , it's _Sam's_ tie that they bought together, right after Palo Alto, when they were still looking for Dad and learning to be a team again, all those months spiked with worry for his father, rekindled appreciation of his brother, and a sick, guilty hope that Sam had lost too much in California to ever want to go back. It was something they lived through together, and RoboSam has no goddamn right to throw that fucking tie away.

But that's stupid. It's just an old tie. 

A small, sharp voice in the back of Dean's head says, _It's not like it's anything important, not like it's an amulet you gave him when you were eight years old and he wore every day of his life, or something like that._ He'd started to turn back and look at Sam when he threw the amulet away, to say _see what you did,_ and thank fuck he didn't because he'd have seen Sam's face, and he'd be reliving the sight of that kicked-puppy expression right now, now that it's too late to apologize or dig the goddamn thing out of the trash. Even if he had it right here, even if he could pull the amulet out of his pocket and say _I didn't mean it, I was just mad and hurt but I didn't mean it,_ even then it would be too late because Sam's not fucking here to see it.

Dean rolls his own black tie into a tight little ball and shoves it deep into an interior pocket of his duffle.

Once he's dressed, RoboSam says "don't wait up" with an ugly smirk and then he's gone, leaving Dean to consider his own options for the evening. He could sit here completely sober in this dim, barely-cooled motel room watching pay per view and feeling sorry for himself, or he could go next door and visit his new best friend Ricky at his Discount Liquor Warehouse. And that's an easy decision, because he really needs something to make that small, sharp voice shut the fuck up.

~~~

By the time he gets back from Ricky's, it's dark. Not _dark_ dark, not hunting dark, not the kind of dark that forces you to rely on your senses of hearing and touch and smell, the kind of dark where you feel your brother next to you and realize he's holding his breath because he detects something out there, where you could sense that because you knew him that well _(know him_ that well). It's what passes for dark in Orlando. Hot, heavy, ink-blue sky suspended above the haze of light pollution that rises over the city streets, stars replaced by vibrating swarms of insects, punctuated by the neon pulse of _Save On Liquor!_ flashing next door.

It's too still and quiet in the motel. Dean unwraps a plastic cup and sits on a metal bench bolted to the pavement just outside their room. Halfway through the bottle of whiskey, he takes out his phone and hesitates over Bobby's number. Bobby won't have anything. Bobby would have called him if he had anything. 

He pushes the button anyway.

"Hey, Dean, how ya doin'? Got a call from someone at Disneyworld earlier. Thought maybe you two were takin' a little vacation."

Dean laughs. Looks like Glen from Des Moines got brave enough to check up on them once RoboSam was out of sight. "Not exactly. We're working an actual case at Disneyworld. Might need some intel on Norwegian ghosts later."

"You got it. So, you boys okay?"

"Oh, I'm peachy. Just enjoying the Orlando night life. And Sam's off doing Sam stuff… or, I guess, not-Sam stuff."

"You keepin' him outta trouble?"

"Doing the best I can, considering. I, ah, don't suppose you've got anything new on that front."

Across the street, a group of teenagers ascends to the bungee platform, laughing and jostling on their way up the steep steps, disappearing into the darkness hovering above the pools of street-level light. They're too far away for Dean to make out their words, but their voices are spiked with fear and bravado.

"Sorry, son. Nothing on this end. But listen…" 

Bobby hesitates, and Dean knows that hesitation well, wants to say _Whatever you're afraid to say, I'm afraid to hear, so how about you just spare us both?_ But nobody ever gets spared.

"Remember, we never expected to get him out. We thought it was forever. He did it, thinking it was forever." 

Yeah, thanks Bobby, he might have forgotten that. He might have somehow forgotten that his little brother knew he'd be trapped with Lucifer forever and jumped into the hole anyway.

The teenagers climbing the steps to the bungee jump have emerged onto the brightly-lit platform. After a few rounds of what looks like rock-paper-scissors, the first jumper is buckled into a harness.

"I'm just thinking about what Cas said," Bobby continues. "That putting his soul back in him could kill him. I know we want to get his soul out of Hell, and if we do… maybe you just stop there and let him go. Leave this soulless version of him alone, rather than trying to re-soul him."

"Bobby—"

"Don't _Bobby_ me, son. Just listen. I think Sam would be glad you at least had part of him, you know? Hunting with you. I know he ain't really Sam, but he's getting better, right? I mean, you gotta think what it could do to him. This might just be as good as it gets. Pushing it any further might leave you with nothin'."

As if this part of Sam actually had Dean's back. As if Sam would really be glad to know his brother was hunting with someone who let him get turned into a vampire, for Christ's sake.

"Dammit, Bobby. You're saying this is our best case scenario? That I should be glad at least _some_ of Sam is walking around topside?"

Bobby sighs. "You know that ain't what I meant. Sam being without his soul is never gonna be the best case scenario. It's just that it might be all we get. And it's more than we thought we'd ever have."

Dean runs a hand down his face and thinks about Karen Singer. Yeah, Bobby knows what it's like to lose someone and have them come back _not right,_ and he still would have been happy with any little piece of Karen he got to keep. But it's not the same thing. Zombie Karen was still sweet and kind, not a goddamn killer robot. And she still loved Bobby. 

(The memory surfaces, unbidden… Sam saying _I don't even really care about you,_ not an angry adolescent _I hate you_ hurled at him in the heat of an argument and immediately regretted, but a calm, cold statement of fact; the bemused look on Sam's face like he recognized, on an intellectual level, how wrong it was, but he couldn't be bothered to give a damn.) 

"We thought wrong," Dean says. "We didn't think he could get out of Hell because we didn't think _anything_ could get out of the cage. But if his body can make it out, so can his soul. If there's even a little bit of a chance that I can put Sam back together again, I've gotta try. I owe him that."

"Yeah, but it might kill the little bit of Sam you got left."

"He's strong, Bobby. He's stronger than you know. He's stronger than Cas knows. He might be just fine. We can't give up."

"Okay, okay. No one's giving up. I promise. You go take care of your Norwegian ghost thing. Let me know if you need help."

"Yeah. Thanks."

(And if he's not strong enough? If putting that shredded soul back into his body leaves him irreversibly broken? Or dead? Would Sam still rather be dead than be a monster? Is RoboSam better than no Sam at all?)

The bungee jumper stands on the edge of the platform, arms spread wide, and falls backward into the darkness below.

Dean lurches to his feet, leans against a blue Ford Focus, and vomits a greasy burger and half a bottle of whiskey onto the driver's door. He stumbles into the motel room and fills the cracked plastic ice bucket with water. After rinsing the vomit off the car, he goes back inside and finishes the rest of the whiskey before falling, fully clothed, onto his bed.

~~~

_(Two hunters walk into a bar. One of them says "My brother here is about to take on Lucifer and lock himself up in Hell, so he's gonna need a couple of gallons of demon blood. As for me, I'd like to see your list of local organic craft beers."_

_"What the hell?" says the bartender. "What kind of bar do you think this is, buddy?"_

_The hunter says, "Jesus, fine, don't get your panties in a twist. Forget the craft beer; I'll just drink whatever beer you've got on tap.")_


	2. Chapter 2

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/housefullofbooks/48091111243/in/photostream/) 

**_2008_**

The ancient little church sits in a bed of sand and scrubby sea oats, its painted clapboard faded and peeling. Maybe it's been abandoned, or maybe it's just not in use on the tail end of a hot Tuesday afternoon, but no one's around to see Dean quietly test the salt-corroded doorknob. The unlocked door swings open easily. "All right," he says, turning to Sam. "Let's find Goldilocks."

It's surprisingly cool inside. Damp, but not sticky. The windows are made of colored glass, obviously situated to allow for a glorious display of light during a morning service, but leaving the building dim this late in the day. Dean's flashlight picks out neat rows of wooden pews, a narrow center aisle, and a small communion table. Jesus gazes down on them from his cross on the far wall, and for a second, the thing that doesn't belong in this church is Dean Winchester himself, still reeking of brimstone, and he has to resist the urge to cower under that knowing look. He's in sudden, desperate need of a drink.

Next to him, oblivious, Sam hesitates before approaching the altar. He finally makes a small genuflection, a cross between a nod and a bow, and walks up the aisle. It's a move Dean's never seen him perform in any of the dozens of churches they've been in. Maybe learning about the existence of actual real-life angels is getting to him. 

Sam sweeps his own flashlight around the perimeter of the room and stops in the corner by the door they just walked through. "There," he says quietly. The beam of light reveals a dark human-sized shape. It looks like a wooden carving, but Sam still approaches it carefully, as though it might bite. He tentatively reaches out a hand and rocks the object toward him, just enough to show the life-sized figure of a woman holding a child, carved from dark wood. He pulls out his phone and takes a couple of photos, then gently releases it to rest back against the wall.

Dean blinks away the afterimage of Sam's flash. "Yeah, okay, that's weird." His voice echoes uncomfortably despite the small size of the church. "What is it?"

"I've got some ideas," Sam says quietly, almost reverently. "But I need to do some more research before we can do anything."

"Wait. We're not taking it now?"

"I don't want to mess with it until we know more about it. Let's hit the library."

But Dean needs a drink, and he can't get one at a library. "How about you hit the library and I'll…" The stricken look on Sam's face stops him cold. "…Go with you," he finishes. "I'll go with you."

Sam smiles gratefully. "It shouldn't take more than a couple of hours." His protective clinginess is equal parts oddly reassuring and extremely frustrating. And right now it's the only thing standing between Dean and a bottle of whiskey. Fucking Florida.

When Dean looks back up toward the altar, Jesus's eyes are sightless, painted-on spots. There's no knowledge there, no accusation. But it's still a relief to slide back into the Impala and leave Him behind the closed door of the church.

~~~

Sam does his research thing at the tiny Apalachicola library, and Dean does the only thing required of him, which is to stay in Sam's line of sight and not die. When Sam finally closes the last book and shuts off his laptop, Dean doesn't even let him get started. "Food first," he says, hustling his brother to the car. He finds a restaurant just off the beach that calls itself a bar and grill, which means he can pretend he's there for the grill part and not for the bar part. With a burger and cheese fries ordered, and a Jack-and-Coke (heavy on the Jack) in front of him, he's ready for what Sam has to say.

"It's a Black Madonna. Specifically, the Black Madonna of Candelaria," Sam says, pulling a sheaf of printed pages and handwritten notes from his laptop bag. Research Mode Sam is a good thing. It's a normal thing. Research Mode Sam is not Freaking the Fuck Out Over Nothing Sam.

"All right. So tell me what you know about the Black Madonna of Candelaria."

"Well, in 1390, a statue of a woman holding an infant was found near a beach at Tenerife, in the Canary Islands off the coast of Spain. Originally she was venerated as a physical manifestation of the vudou spirit Candelina, and was given credit for bringing miracles to the island."

Dean is familiar with this type of history. "But when Christianity got popular, and voudou practitioners had to keep it under the table…"

"Right. In the mid 1400s, Christian converts declared her to be Mary, holding Jesus."

"And you said _a_ Black Madonna, not _the_ Black Madonna, so I assume there are others. Why do you think this is her, and not some other Black Madonna?"

"She's holding a candle," Sam explains. "That's the _Candelaria_ part. Also, tradition says she's found facing the wall."

"Facing the wall? I thought you said she was found on the beach?"

Sam gives him a quick exasperated glance. "She was stolen by people who heard about the miracles and wanted their share. They took her to a different island and kept her inside a building, and she was always found facing the wall there, according to the lore. I'm pretty sure this is her. Or one version of her, anyway. The original was swept out to sea in a tsunami in 1826, and they made a copy after that. I don't know if this one's the copy or the original. But honestly, it doesn't really matter. Either way, she's not supposed to be here. She needs to go back to Tenerife."

Their food arrives and Dean holds up his empty glass with a smile. "Make the next one a double," he tells the waitress.

He turns back to Sam, who's giving the empty glass a pinched, angry look. "What's she doing in Apalachicola?" he asks, hoping Sam will get caught up more in the story of What is The Black Madonna of Candelaria Doing in Florida and less in the story of How Much is Dean Drinking. 

"I have no idea. No one knows what she was doing in Tenerife either, so… I guess she gets around. We've just got to get her in the water and let her find her way back."

"All right, well, that seems easy enough."

"I don't understand how it's going to help, though," Sam muses. "I mean, yeah, she goes back to Tenerife, but isn't the seal already broken? If leaving her home church broke the seal, or if showing up in Apalachicola broke the seal, it's too late. The seal's broken. That's what Castiel told you about the Witnesses, right? That it doesn't matter that we undid it? The fact that it was done at all broke the seal?"

Dean shrugs. "All I know is, Cas said she needs to not be here, so we need to make her not be here."

"Guess so." Sam's not content. Dean just wants to fix it, but Sam wants to _understand_ it, and that ain't gonna happen. 

And the truth is, Dean doesn't even care all that much about fixing it. Right now, this Black Madonna's biggest draw is that she's a distraction from whatever the fuck Sam started doing while Dean was gone, whatever it is that Castiel expects Dean to stop. And from the memories clawing their way around the edges of Dean's consciousness. But Sam doesn't need to know any of that.

"Listen, this is important," Sam continues. "When we go back to the church pick her up, you've got to be careful. You have to treat her with respect."

"Respect? It's a statue, Sam."

"Yeah, and the lore says one of the shepherds who found her tried to throw a stone at her, and he lost the use of his arm. And the other one tried to stab her, but the knife turned on him and he stabbed himself."

"I'm not gonna _stab_ her! What kind of moron stabs a statue?"

"I'm just saying, be careful."

"Jesus, Sam. I'm not gonna stab the statue. I'm not gonna throw rocks at the goddamn statue. Just chill, man."

For just a second, Sam's expression is an open mixture of fear and fury, more emotion than he's exposed since the day Dean knocked on his hotel room door with grave dirt still caked under his fingernails. "Well, excuse me for not wanting to watch the goddamn statue _smite_ you, all right?" he snaps. "Forgive me for not wanting to watch you die again. I think I've had enough of that to last me the rest of my life."

Fucking Florida. And Hell and Lilith and angels and seals and just… Fuck it. Just fuck it all.

Sam sets his lips into a thin line and looks away. After a minute, he sighs and returns to his notes, his face deliberately neutral. "The people who stole her from Tenerife eventually returned her, because, quote, 'a slew of troubles and illness befell them,' "he reads.

"How bad were these troubles and illnesses?"

"Well, the plague. That kind of bad."

"Then we need to get her out of here before the plague hits Apalachicola, right?"

"Probably. I mean, I don't know if she's going to bring the actual plague, but yeah. Bad things could happen here." Sam taps at his laptop while Dean considers the logistics of loading a life-sized statue into the Impala. "So, check this out," Sam says, spinning his laptop around so Dean can see Mapquest on the screen. "We need to get her to the Atlantic Ocean. The east coast of Florida is pretty heavily populated, but we can head north to the Georgia coast. I think Wassaw Island National Refuge would work. It's probably about six hours away, maybe closer to seven since you won't take the Interstate. We can put her back in the water there."

"Georgia?" Dean generously ignores the slur on his driving, even though Sam knows damn well why he prefers back roads and state highways to the Interstate. Too many people, too many eyes, not enough scenic distraction. He's gonna let it slide because he's cutting Sam some slack today, but this Georgia suggestion is too much. "Sam, explain to me why we'd drive six hours to put her in the water in _Georgia_ when we are literally a minute away from the ocean right now."

"That's not the ocean. It's the Gulf of Mexico."

"Does it matter? She'll find her way back."

"But if we want to get her back to Tenerife, we need to get her into the gulf stream, into a current that will take her across the Atlantic. We've got a better chance of that if we get her to the Atlantic coast." Sam's voice is climbing, and he's starting to sound a little desperate.

"Oh, come on. She made it here, didn't she? If it's bad luck to have her here, we've got to get her back in the water. You just told me that a bunch of awful shit happened when she wasn't at her home church. We've got to send the old girl on her way. Now."

"Okay, but—"

"No. No _buts."_ Sam can talk about currents all he wants, but Dean saw his map, saw how it takes them directly north, on a path clearly designed to get them out of Florida as quickly as possible before turning toward the coast. He knows what Sam is up to. "Look. Cas didn't say we need to get her home. He said something is in this church that needs to not be in this church. That's the important part. Now, how much of this is you wanting to get her ass back to the Canary Islands, and how much is you wanting to get _our_ asses out of Florida?" That was probably a low blow, and Sam sags a little in defeat, but dammit. If Sam's right, they need to get moving. "Maybe you want to spend six hours in the car with a vengeful statue, but I don't. I think getting this thing back in the water ASAP needs to be our immediate goal here."

Drink number two arrives, and Dean finishes it in two big swallows before Sam speaks again

"Thing is, we can't drop her off at the coast here. There's too many people who might intercept her and possibly bring her back to shore. We've got to get to the other side of the barrier islands." He sighs heavily, looking away from Dean and running a hand through his hair. "Okay," he says, like he's making some kind of agreement with himself. "We'll take her to St. George Island. There's a wildlife reserve. Not a lot of people. Should be safe." 

"See?" Dean smiles. "That'll work. That's a plan."

"And we need to wait until dark." Sam sags even more, looking pale and limp and completely drained. He looks like shit, honestly. 

Dean doesn't particularly want to sleep — he's had enough nightmares for the time being — but Sam clearly needs it. "Okay, so we've got a few hours," Dean says. "You want to find a place to catch some shut-eye? You've been up for a while."

Sam still won't look at him. "I'll sleep when it's Wednesday," he says.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/housefullofbooks/48091172762/in/photostream/)

**_2010_ **

 

When Dean wakes up, Sam's watching him from his perch on the other bed, and there aren't really words to describe how uncomfortable he feels about sleeping under RoboSam's watchful eye. "Look what the cat dragged in," he mutters.

Sam's smirk suggests he's about to make some kind of joke about the cat and pussy. Leaving him that opening was a really bad idea, and Dean's only excuse is that he's not yet equipped to quickly predict RoboSam's sense of humor. But Sam just packs the smile away, raises an eyebrow at Dean's still-fully-dressed state, and says "Morning, sunshine. Sleep well?"

"Like a baby." No reason to reveal that he was more passed out than asleep, that it took a bottle of whiskey and then some to make his brain stop churning, that something furry apparently crawled into his mouth overnight and died there. Sam doesn't need to know what happens when Sam's not here. Not that Sam's ever really _here_ anyway.

(But what if he was? Maybe if Dean stares at him long enough, hard enough, Sam's eyes will flip black and he'll laugh a throaty demonic laugh. _You finally caught on,_ he'll say. _Yes, I'm a demon, and I'm so powerful that your silly little salt and holy water and devil's traps have no effect on me. I've had a grand time playing this game with you, pretending Sammy's soul was still downstairs. But I've had my fun and now I'm done._ And Sam's head will tip back and a thick black cloud of smoke will roll out of his mouth, disappearing through the gap at the bottom of the door. Sam will collapse onto the bed, still alive even though a demon's been riding him for over a year. Then he'll open his eyes and blink in confusion and say _Dean?_ and Dean will say _it's okay, you're okay,_ and for once it won't be a lie.)

Dean crawls out of bed and heads for the bathroom. He needs to brush his teeth and piss and brush his teeth again and maybe find a little hair of the dog. In that order. "What about you?" he asks. "Enjoyed your night on the town? No details, please," he adds quickly. 

"It's a draug," Sam says.

"It's a what now?"

"I remembered where I'd heard about the toe thing. It's a Norwegian legend. They're animated corpses."

"Zombies," Dean mumbles around his toothbrush. "Sweet."

Sam laughs. "Yeah, not exactly sweet. They're huge, bloated, walking dead people. And they're killers. According to the lore, anyone killed by a draug might be destined to become one themselves. One way to prevent that is by tying the body's big toes together, to keep it from escaping the grave. Which is why Lund told his family to tie his toes together if he died."

Well, isn't that nifty. If only it were that easy to prevent other unnatural infestations. "So Lund thought a draug was after him. And he didn't want to turn into one himself. But why did he think it was a draug?"

"The smell, I imagine. They stink. A draug's stench is supposed to be pretty strong."

Oh, crap, the smell they're _still_ talking about. "Marta said you can still smell it around Norway sometimes. So it's still there. Or it keeps coming back."

"Yep."

"Well, at least we know where to find it. We gotta end Zombie Mouse before it gets anybody else. How do we kill it?"

"That's the part I don't remember."

"Okay. I told Bobby we might be on the tail of some Norwegian ghost. Hopefully he's been looking into it." Since Dean's still wearing yesterday's clothes, his phone is still in his pocket. Bobby answers on the second ring. 

"Hey, Bobby. I'm putting you on speaker." There was a time he didn't feel the need to warn Bobby that Sam was listening, but, well. Times have changed. "What do you know about draugs?" Dean asks.

 _"Draugar,"_ Sam corrects him. "The plural is draugar." Because if RoboSam had to keep any of Sam's habits, he picked the most annoying ones, the fucker. 

"Yeah, they were on my short list," Bobby says. "They're a form of revenant. Nasty critters. Big and heavy, got a foul odor. Sometimes they're out for revenge, and other times they're just killin' for no good reason. What makes you think you got one?"

"We've got something real smelly, and a dead Norwegian who insisted that his survivors tie his big toes together."

"Well, that adds up. Who's it going after?"

"People who work at Disneyworld," Dean says. "We don't know what they have in common other than that. Don't seem to have any enemies, though."

"Ah, well, you never know what evil lurks in the heart of man. And draugar can be oracles; they can see into the future. So, who knows what this one was pissed off about. Maybe something that ain't even happened yet. Anyway, they usually hang out around their own graves, but I'm guessing this one wasn't buried at Disneyworld, so it's one of the more mobile variety. Any sign that it's killing anywhere else?"

"Not that we've heard of, but we'll double-check. How do we kill it?"

For a minute, there's only the soft sound of Bobby flipping pages. "Iron repels, but won't kill it. You could wrestle it back into its grave… or behead it with its own sword… but… looks like your best option is to stab it through the heart with a wooden stake, cut its head off, burn the corpse, and scatter the ashes at sea. Basically, overkill it. Make sure it can't pull itself back together again."

"Of course," Dean sighs. Just once, it would be nice if a simple head shot solved all of his problems. 

"They mostly come out at night, so that's prime hunting time for this thing." Bobby pauses and clears his throat. "So, ah… You boys need any help? Doin' okay?"

"Doing great," Dean replies decisively, without looking at Sam. "Thanks, Bobby. We'll let you know how it goes." He ends the call and slips the phone back into his pocket. "So. We wanna figure out who wanted revenge on the victims, find the grave, hit this thing where it lives? Or do we hope it shows up in Norway again?"

"I vote Norway," Sam says. "We don't even know if revenge is a motive. Marta couldn't think of anyone who'd want to kill sweet old Uncle Will, and we don't have _any_ info on Anderson. We could spend all day chasing leads, but as far as we know, it's only killing people at Disneyworld. Might as well stick to that."

Dean agrees, partly because it makes sense and partly because he really isn't in the mood to talk to more family members. He takes a shower to wash off the smell of whiskey and vomit, and then goes out for food and supplies (and a couple of cheap ties, godfuckingdammit) while Sam scours local news sites, just to be sure the draug hasn't killed anyone outside of Disney property. By the time he gets back, it's too hot to do anything else and he's tired of Florida and every damn thing in it, so he delegates the stake-carving to Sam and falls asleep watching a shitty courtroom reality show.

 

~~~

When he wakes up, Sam has not only whittled a couple of decent stakes, but has acquired an old beat-up pickup. "Well, we're not going to burn a draug at Disneyworld and scatter its ashes on Pirates of the Caribbean," he shrugs. "Gotta have some way of hauling it around." At least he found something nondescript, not like that stupid flashy asshole Charger he was driving when he first showed up on Dean's doorstep. This truck is something Sam would have picked out.

It's long after midnight when they pack the stakes into the weapons bag and drive back to Disney. Even at this hour, Orlando is too bright and shiny and twinkly and false, and Dean silently promises that if _(when)_ he gets the real Sam back, he'll never make him come to this godforsaken state again. 

The version of Sam he does have, who doesn't notice or care how awful Florida is, quietly pilots the stolen truck along an unfamiliar route. "We're going to the staff entrance to Epcot," he explains. "Closer to Norway. Less security." 

When they arrive, the parking lot is reassuringly empty. They shoulder their bags and head for the low grey Cast Services building. It's easy enough to break into, and after they navigate the darkened halls, they discover the building backs up almost directly to the Norway pavilion.

"Much better," Dean says. He hadn't been relishing the thought of dragging a draug corpse all the way through Epcot to the main parking lot, or dismembering it in the park. "How'd you find it?"

"This is where Marta had me drop her off this morning."

"Wait. _What?"_ Dean replays Sam's statement in his head. "You were with Marta this morning?"

"Well, yeah. Last night. When I went out."

"You and Marta? That's who you were with last night? And you were talking to her about the case, or you were…?" 

"Little from column A, little from column B," Sam says, with another of those RoboSam smirks.

Dean stops, astonished. "You're telling me you had sex with _Marta."_

"Um, yeah, and? You weren't kidnapped by fairy aliens this time. You got some other rules about when I'm supposed to be a monk?"

"You slept with a witness. A victim's _family member._ On a case."

"Oh, come on," Sam scoffs. "Don't pretend you've never comforted a grieving widow, or helped a terrified damsel in distress get her mind off things, cause I know that's bullshit."

"This is different!"

"Yeah, I know, believe me. You were dying for me to bang that werewolf chick, or the art dealer in New York, or just about anyone who you didn't already want to bang, but now it's different. Because _I'm_ different."

"Yes," Dean snaps. "This is different. _You're_ different. There's a difference between snuggling up to somebody when you're sharing a foxhole, and shitting where you eat. _This_ is shitting where you eat. And I don't think you know the difference."

"Fine. I'm wrong. Whatever."

But Sam just rolling over somehow makes Dean even angrier. "You don't even know _why_ it was wrong!"

"The fuck I don't." Sam voice is like ice. He practically throws his bag on the ground. "It's wrong because _your_ Sam wouldn't have done it. Of course, _your_ Sam did some fucked-up shit back in the day, and I remember you getting pretty pissed off about that. You do know I still have all those memories, right? And I don't remember you ever saying _Sammy can do no wrong_ back then. I actually remember you saying Sammy was a big fuck-up and, oh yeah, a monster. But now he's Saint Sammy, and anything _I_ do is wrong, but anything _he_ would have done is A-OK. So, should I go bang a demon instead of a witness? Would that meet your approval, if I followed in his perfect footsteps?"

"Shut up," Dean growls.

Sam's eyes narrow dangerously. "Or what about an angel? That would be okay, wouldn't it? I mean, you've done it, and Saint Sammy's probably giving it up to an archangel right now, so—"

Dean's punch connects with Sam's jaw before he even realizes his hand is curled into a fist, and suddenly Sam's laid flat on the ground, arms raised in self defense. Dean wants to beat him into the pavement, wants to punch that goddamn mouth into a bloody pulp, and he can't. He can't. He stands with his hands still clenched, shaking with fury, glaring at the figure sprawled on the walkway in front of him. He unleashed all his emotions on that face once before, after they killed Veritas, and he wants to do it again. Wants to take all of his fear and anger and guilt and regret and unload it right into this changeling. Beat him unconscious and walk away. But now he can't. This belongs to Sam, and now that he knows that, he's got to take care of it. 

To his credit, RoboSam seems to realize he's gone too far. "I'm sorry," he says, his eyes fixed somewhere around Dean's collarbone. "Really, Dean, I'm sorry." He sits up and tentatively dabs at his bleeding lip. "I know you don't think of me as your Sam, and you want me to be him again. And I understand that. But there's a good chance it would kill me, or turn me into a drooling vegetable. Me being that Sam… it's probably something you need to give up on, okay?" He blinks up at Dean with the closest thing he can get to an earnest expression. "Look. I'm trying here. I don't know what you want me to say."

(What Dean wants him to say is _Hey, Dean, it's really me. I've been here the whole time. I'm sorry I pretended to be a soulless dick and I'm sorry Cas is being so weird and I'm sorry we had to trick you into thinking my soul was in Hell, but there was a really good reason, and he's going to tell you all about it. Right now I've got to get some sleep, because I've been pretending I don't need to sleep for over a year, and damn, that shit got old. But I'm sorry. I'm not in Hell. I'm right here.)_

Dean rubs a hand down his face and counts to ten. Then twenty. Then thirty. He finally extends a hand to Sam, who doesn't flinch but does hesitate for a second before he lets Dean help him up. "I'm sorry," he repeats, brushing himself off and not looking Dean in the eye. "But it's my body. It's my life. You've got to let me make my own choices."

Except it's not. It's not his body; it's not his life. Those both belong to the little brother who asked Dean to kill him rather than let him become a monster. _You have to watch out for me,_ Sam had said. _If I ever turn into something that I'm not, you have to kill me._ And sure, he was drunk; it was easy enough to write it off as whiskey-induced melodrama. But he'd reiterated it the next day, stone cold sober. He'd rather be dead than be something that hurt people.

"I'm sorry too," Dean says. Sorry he ever let any of this happen. Sorry he supported Sam when he thought it would be a good idea to jump into Hell. Sorry he didn't realize, as soon as he saw him, that this asshole with Sam's face wasn't really his brother. Sorry for a lot of things.

~~~

_(A lone hunter walks into a bar and asks for two beers. The bartender brings the beers and asks who gets the second one. "Here's the thing," says the hunter. "I need you to take this to my brother. He's in Hell. You need to find a gateway, fight your way inside, kill hundreds of demons on the way, and find the lowest, deepest part of the Pit. You'll know when you get there because it's darker than dark and colder than cold. There's a cage there that's strong enough to hold an archangel. In fact, the Devil himself is inside that very cage. My brother's in there with him, being tortured in every way you could possibly imagine, and in some ways you couldn't even dream of. I need you to get into that cage and give my brother this beer."_

_The bartender stares at him like he just grew a second head. "Are you out of your mind? I'm not fighting my way into the deepest part of Hell and facing the Devil himself just to give your brother a beer."_

_"Yeah, you're right, that's crazy." says the hunter. "Better make it a whiskey.")_

  [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/housefullofbooks/48091111243/in/photostream/)

**_2008_**

The little church looks even more abandoned when they return after dark. There aren't any functioning exterior lights, and the only illumination comes from the street lights a few yards away. The front door is still unlocked, with the dark statue still sullenly facing the wall. 

_Hope you haven't started the plague yet, sister._

"Dean," Sam hisses. "Respect."

Oh, for fuck's sake. He really didn't mean to say that loudly enough for Sam to hear it. He probably should have stopped after the three or four drinks at the restaurant instead of continuing after they left, sipping from his flask under Sam's baleful eye. "Sorry, ma'am. Don't mind me. Just a couple of innocent hunters trying to get you back home, if you please, ma'am." He bows obsequiously to the statue and turns to grin at Sam, who is not the least bit amused.

They haul her out of the church and jam her into the back seat of the Impala. Sam spreads a tarp over her, which makes it look a little less like they're transporting a vengeful statue and a little more like they're transporting a body, and Dean makes a mental note to keep it a couple of miles below the speed limit as they put Apalachicola behind them.

Highway 98 becomes the John Gorrie Memorial Bridge just outside of Apalachicola. It's six miles of narrow two-lane road suspended over the calm, dark water of East Bay. Dean usually prefers that he and his baby stay on the ground, thank you very much. But there's a gentle gulf breeze tickling his hair through the open windows and a spectacular view of a thunderstorm far off to the east that sets the midnight clouds alight every few minutes. It's warm, serene, and _nice._ Florida's not a bad place, as long as you've got a slight buzz and you're not stuck in some asshole's endless death loop. Dean's actually enjoying it right now.

Sam, on the other hand, is as miserable as Dean's ever seen him. And given Sam's seemingly endless capacity for misery, that's saying a lot. He sits with his arms crossed, heedless of the hair whipping in his face, staring straight ahead. Only the minute and constant tapping of his thumb against his arm reveals his anxiety.

They hit land again in the little town of Eastpoint, where they're greeted by a sign directing the way to Tate's Hell State Forest. Dean considers making a joke about some asshole named Tate getting his own Hell, but it ends up sitting bitter and unspoken at the back of his throat. He turns south onto Highway 300, over another long skinny bridge to St. George Island. 

St. George Island is long, but it's divided into two sections by a man-made channel. On the other side of the channel the island is a wildlife preserve, but this side of the island is dotted with expensive houses and old cabins that will eventually be demolished to build more expensive houses. Sam directs him along a series of narrower and narrower roads until he finally says "stop here, this is good." Dean pulls over at a public beach access point next to a cabin that's apparently in the midst of being torn down. The giant rental dumpster is a good place to hide the Impala. He slips her into the shadows behind the dumpster, hoping her engine didn't wake any of the neighbors.

They're about fifty yards away from the beach. The Madonna is heavy, smooth, and bulky, and she's going to be difficult to carry that far. While Sam heads off to scout the boat launches along the shore, Dean wraps the tarp around the statue, tying both ends off with rope. He leaves a couple of loops slack enough to serve as handles, because he's smart like that. But when Sam trots back to the Impala, he's not impressed by Dean's handiwork. In fact, he flinches at the sight of the shrouded statue, looking like he's going to bolt, or vomit, or something. But he shoves down whatever's coming to the surface, picks up his end, and leads the way to the boat he found.

Dean eyes the small rowboat Sam came up with and gives him a puzzled, disapproving look. _Rowboat?_ Sam frowns and flicks his eyes pointedly toward the nearest house. _Engine noise._ Oh well. It's really too small for a couple of grown men and a life-sized statue of a woman and a child. Dean's not entirely sure he's comfortable taking it out into the open Gulf. But Sam picked it, and Sam's still wearing his mask of desperate unhappiness, and just this once, Dean's not going to mess with him. Not the time or the place. He climbs into the boat and helps maneuver Sam and the statue in with him. The Madonna ends up halfway in Dean's lap, heavy and dark and quite honestly, creepy as fuck. The idea of an angry, vengeful statue isn't quite as amusing as it was on dry land. When the impulse strikes to make a joke about her head being in his lap, he remembers Sam's warning about _respect_ and tamps it down right quick.

"You're not trapped, are you?" Sam asks quietly, suspiciously examining the statue lying across Dean's legs. "Can you get out if we tip over?"

"How about you just don't tip the boat, Sasquatch?" But Dean slides his legs out to demonstrate how not-trapped he is. Sam nods, then turns to scan the eastern horizon. The thunderstorm fizzled out long ago, leaving a mostly clear, moonlit sky above them.

"No storm," Dean points out. "No sharks, no pirates, no Loch Ness Monster. Just you and me and a pissed-off statue. So how about we get this started?" 

Sam picks up the oars and starts rowing. 

There's no sound except the squeak of the oars in their guides and the water lapping against the side of the boat. Sam doesn't talk, either because he's saving his breath for rowing or because he just doesn't talk anymore, and Dean doesn't feel like breaking the silence. Finally Sam looks back at the island behind them, apparently decides they've gone far enough, and puts the oars down. 

They untie the rope, remove the Madonna from her wrapping, and carefully heave her over the side of the boat. She slips into the water with a faint splash. For a second Dean's sure she's going to sink like a stone, but she bobs back up to the surface, her dark wooden face staring placidly at them, and no, that's not freaky at all. Dean prods at her gently with an extended oar and pushes the statue as hard as he can without tipping the boat. She begins to drift away, but God only knows whether she's heading for Tenerife or Galveston.

"Think she'll make it?" Dean asks.

"Hope so. Either way, she's not our problem any more," Sam replies. "Can we just get out of Florida now?" 

Dean's ready to take his turn at the oars, but Sam snatches them up and vigorously paddles at one side of the boat, turning them back toward the island.

"It's not really that bad, is it?" Dean says. Sam sets his jaw and rows harder than ever, but Dean's feeling a little more comfortable now that the Madonna is safely out of the picture. "I could see spending a little time here. We could enjoy the beach."

Sam glares darkly at the black smudge of the island ahead of them. "Not this beach." 


	3. Chapter 3

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/housefullofbooks/48091172762/in/photostream/)

**  
_2010_  
**

They can smell it before they're even inside the Norway pavilion grounds. Deep, musty, the odor of putrid flesh in a stagnant swamp, mildew and rot and death.

"Jesus. That stench must be our draug," Sam mutters.

"Yahtzee. Guess we're in luck that he showed up tonight. We can get this wrapped up quick." Dean stops to unzip his bag and retrieve the two stakes, handing one to Sam.

The odor intensifies as they get closer to the Maelstrom. There's no other sign of the thing, so it has to be inside the ride. They stop at the service entrance, with the fake Norwegian village looming overhead, and Sam picks the lock. He yanks the door open to reveal yards and yards of roped-off corridor, designed to herd park visitors into a neatly stacked queue. Finally they get to the entrance to the ride itself. To their right is the onboarding area, where the boats disappear into a low tunnel. On the left is the wider area where riders disembark. If the draug is hidden within the bowels of the ride, either path will eventually lead them to it.

Dean heads to the left and motions for Sam to follow, but Sam shakes his head. "We don't want to accidentally chase it out into the park," he says. "We need to keep it confined to the ride. We should separate and take both ends. You start at one end, I'll start at the other, and we'll catch it in the middle somewhere."

"Yeah, sounds good." The thing is, RoboSam is a pretty decent hunter, as long as you can deal with the rest of it. Dean points at the onboarding area on the right. "You take the entrance. I'll take the exit. Make some noise if you see it."

Sam rolls his eyes when he sees Dean has assigned him the smaller entrance. But he heaves his bag onto his shoulder, grasps his stake, and begins creeping along the narrow catwalk next to the tracks, ducking under the low ceiling of the tunnel entrance. That's another good thing about RoboSam; he generally follows directions now. Should have thought to tell him _don't let me get turned into a goddamn vampire._ And also _don't bang the witness_ and _have some empathy, for God's sake_ and _just be Sam, okay? Just please, please be Sam._

Dean goes left, toward the spacious deboarding area. After carefully traversing the catwalk for a few yards, he has second thoughts about the logistics of attacking a huge creature with a wooden stake at close range on such a narrow trail, and trades it for a sawed-off shotgun loaded with iron rounds. He can take the thing down with iron first, then finish it with the stake. It'll work. He shoves the blunt end of the stake into his back pocket, practices a quick draw, and decides he's okay with a foot and a half of sharpened wood against his back.

A few yards down the track, the tunnel widens into a model of a Norwegian village. The stench is so intense, there should be wavy cartoon stink lines floating above the quaint fake businesses. The damn thing's got to be close. He reaches back to check the stake, shotgun poised for action in his right hand.

Then he sees it. It's massive. Humanoid, but swollen to half again the size of a large man. Its skin has a blue-grey tinge, and damp dark hair hangs lank over its bloated face. It's something that was once human, with people who loved it. But now it's a monster, a soulless shambling corpse leaving a trail of destruction in its wake, and you can't let things like that go unchecked. You just can't.

Dean aims his shotgun at its chest and fires. The draug stumbles backward, and Bobby was right. Iron definitely doesn't kill it. Doesn't even seem to slow it down much. It catches itself, opens the toothless cavern of its mouth in an angry howl, and continues shuffling toward him. But that's okay; the shotgun blast will have alerted Sam. He'll be here any minute, and they'll team up on this big son of a bitch.

The draug moves faster now, maybe because it's angry or scared, but either way it's faster than he anticipated, and he's trying to decide whether to go for the head or the knees and _shit,_ maybe they shouldn't have split up after all, because things are moving way too fast here and he could really use some backup. Before he can get another shot off, the draug is practically on top of him. It sweeps out with one huge arm, knocking him off balance. Dean stumbles over something, God knows what, and ends up on his back. The shotgun clatters off somewhere out of reach, but he manages to roll to his side long enough to grab the stake.

Before he can get up, the awful stench of the draug fills his nostrils, making his eyes water, and he realizes it's right at his feet. It leans over him, its spongy greyish face split with a smile like a bloody gash. Dean lies flat on his back and clutches the stake in both hands. But he's got no leverage in this position; he can't stab the thing from here. Instead, he extends his arms and holds the stake in front of him like a shield. If the draug attacks, it will at least have to run itself onto the point before it can do much damage to him.

But the draug doesn't attack. It gazes at him with an appraising tilt of its swollen head and _speaks,_ low and deep and gurgly, as if it's speaking around a mouthful of water.

_I know who you are, hunter. I know what you seek._

"All I seek is your death, you stinky freak."

He just has to keep it occupied. Keep it busy until Sam shows up. (Don't think about Sam standing by, watching him get turned by a vamp. Don't don't _don't_ think about that.)

It laughs wetly. _Not my death. My death is immaterial to you. You seek his life._

Oh, Christ. _His life._ It's an oracle. Bobby said the draugar can see into the future but he didn't think, it never even occurred to him, but here it is and it's a fucking _oracle,_ it _knows things,_ and if he asks, it might answer. And the part of him that warns _don't trust the monster, Winchester_ is pretty much drowned out by the part screaming _ask the oracle, ask the oracle, you idiot._

(Where the hell is Sam?)

It's now or never. There's nothing left to lose. He lowers the stake slightly and swallows hard. "The one I seek." His voice sounds impossibly small. "Will I find him? Will I ever get him back? How do I get to him?"

It laughs again, a horrible, wet sound. _There is but one path._

Suddenly the draug shrieks in pain as a point of wood erupts from its chest. It staggers to its knees and there's Sam, behind it, plunging a stake through its body. It collapses before Dean can roll completely out of the way. Half of it lands on him and God, it's heavy, it's so heavy, he can't breathe, and the stench is unbelievable, and its breath is cold and damp as it shudders and gasps its last words next to his ear.

_Dode og doden… dode og doden._

Then it goes limp, and Dean clamps down a surge of panic as its bulk presses him into the ground. Finally Sam manages to heave the beast partway off of him and Dean half rolls, half crawls out from under it.

"Jesus," Sam pants, as he releases the draug back onto the ground. "This thing weighs a ton."

Dean lies on the ground for a minute, gulping air. Then, ew, no, taking shallow breaths instead, because its wet stink still clings to his nostrils.

Sam kneels next to him. "You hurt anywhere?" he asks, gently probing Dean's ribs, and he sounds concerned enough that Dean almost feels guilty for remembering the vampire incident.

"I'm fine," he says, pushing Sam's hands away. "I need a Silkwood shower, though."

"Yeah, you do. You reek." Sam wrinkles his nose and stands, taking a couple of steps back.

Dean climbs to his feet and nudges the corpse with a foot, begrudgingly impressed that Sam stabbed the bastard in the back and managed to skewer it through the heart. "Good work. Now we gotta figure out how to get this thing out of here."

"I saw something in the Cast Services building. I'll be right back." Sam trots off, away from the darkened buildings of the Norway pavilion. "You should find a hose or something," he calls over his shoulder.

Yeah, he really should. Dean prowls the area, finally discovering a garden hose, and as he rinses off as well as he can, he repeats the monster's last words in his head, committing them to memory. _Dode og doden. Dode og doden._

When Sam returns, he's pushing some kind of giant utility cart topped with a few folded tarps. "Cut its head off now?" he asks. "It'll be easier to move if it's in smaller pieces."

Dean shakes his head. "Nah. If we cut it up here, it's gonna leave a huge, bloody mess."

"What part of that is our problem?"

"All of it, Sam. All of it is our problem. You think we aren't on security cameras right now? You think they aren't gonna pull those tapes if they find a pile of draug goo when they come unlock the doors?"

"Fine." Sam shrugs. He's still mostly pliant, mostly agreeable. Mostly acceptable.

(What if this is what Dean ends up with? Is _mostly acceptable_ enough?)

They haul the huge, heavy body onto the cart and tuck the tarps around it. And then it's time for another trip to the garden hose because damn. The stink. Sam rinses the small amount of draug goo away, then holds the hose as Dean scrubs at his hands. Out of nowhere he says, "So, there at the end. It sounded like you were… talking to it?"

Well, crap. There's no telling how much Sam heard, and Dean absolutely doesn't want to have the _I haven't quite given up on putting your soul back, even if it might kill you or turn you into a vegetable_ conversation.

"It just started talking, so I figured I'd try to keep keep it distracted. Waiting for you to finally show up." He shakes the excess water from his hands and takes the hose from Sam, holding it out for him.

Sam rubs his hands under the cold water. "What did it say?" he asks casually, without looking at Dean.

Dean shrugs. "I don't speak Norwegian." Technically, it's not a lie, just kind of a misdirection. Sam calmly rinses his own hands without responding. So maybe he thinks Dean's being completely honest with him here. Or maybe not. RoboSam's tells might not be anywhere close to Real Sam's tells, so who the fuck knows what he's really thinking.

Dean needs to change the subject.

"All right. We gotta behead this thing and burn it. Where are we gonna do that?"

"Yeah, I was thinking about that. St. George Island is just a few hours from here. Remember, where we released that Black Madonna? It's pretty remote. Seems like a decent place for a good old-fashioned pit barbecue."

Dean didn't think he'd ever see that island again, at least not with Sam at his side. His brother's simmering hatred of the place is still fresh in his memory. But, well. It wouldn't be the first time he was wrong about never seeing something again.

 

~~~

They swing by their hotel to pick up the Impala and the rest of their stuff before the drive to St. George Island. "I'll lead," Dean says, as he tosses their gear into the car.

Sam frowns. "Actually, I was thinking I should lead. If you're right behind me, you can see if the tarps get loose or anything."

He's right, but Dean can't help grimacing at the thought of spending hours on the road trailing a truck full of dead draug.

"I mean, if you want to take the lead, you can drive the truck," Sam says. "I can follow in the Impala."

"No, that's not happening," Dean sighs. "Let's just get the hell out of Dodge. You first."

Sam drives the old pickup carefully, staying just under the speed limit. Dean stays close on his tail. It turns out St. George Island is actually about a six hour drive from Orlando, which is a lot of time to think. To think about living with this version of Sam, and whether it would be possible to train him, raise him (again) into a good hunter and a better man. To think about what could happen _(could_ happen) if Sam's damaged soul were put back into his body. To think about leaving his brother's soul in Hell, giving up on him for good. To think about what's happening to him down there.

The last time Dean drove to St. George Island, there was a sunset in his rear-view mirror and a thunderstorm in front of him. He was fresh out of Hell and his brother was at his side and their world had turned upside-down, but he thought he'd managed to save Sam from the worst thing that could happen to him. This time, there's a sunrise behind him and a revenant or two in front of him and an empty passenger seat beside him.

Yeah, it's a lot of time to think.

~~~

It's early in the afternoon when they get to the little town of Eastpoint. They hide the truck in a wooded area just north of the bridge to St. George Island and drive the Impala back into town to eat more drive-through burgers and pick up supplies. Dean stops at a hardware store for a sharper hatchet than the one stashed in the trunk, more lighter fluid, and some heavy-duty trash bags. "You ought to go check out that grocery store down the street," he tells Sam, flipping him the keys. "They're probably not gonna have road salt at a hardware store in Florida." And yes, that's true. But it's even more true that if your shopping list makes you look like Jeffrey Dahmer, you've got to have a certain personality, a certain amount of charm, to become just another normal customer in the clerk's eyes, as opposed to someone who sticks in the memory as suspicious murderous psycho type. RoboSam doesn't have that personality. Real Sam, on the other hand? Real Sam could buy duct tape and handcuffs and a meat cleaver, and then bring out the puppy dog eyes and ask you where he could get his hands on some chloroform, and you'd draw a map for him and wish him good luck. But Real Sam isn't here. And Dean suddenly misses Real Sam so hard that he has to stop and catch his breath.

Dean takes his time in the hardware store, flirting with the clerk though his heart isn't in it. By the time he leaves the store, the Impala is sitting in the parking lot again, her gleam hidden by a light coating of road dust. She's definitely owed some tender loving care as soon as they get to a better place. Which is basically any place that's not Florida.

Dean loads his bags into the back seat and finds that Sam bought not only salt, but also bug spray, cold beer, and several bags of ice. Because apparently they're going to have a goddamn picnic. He opens the driver side door and Sam looks up, a little surprised, before scooting over to the passenger seat.

"You planning a party?" Dean asks, motioning with his head toward the back seat.

Sam shrugs. "When I asked if they had big bags of salt, the cashier asked if I needed it to make ice cream. Guy was a talkative son of a bitch, and kinda nosy, so I figured I'd go along with it. I told him we're having a family cookout. Grandma's bringing the rest of the ice cream supplies, and the cousins are bringing hot dogs."

Dean should be pleased that RoboSam figured out how to look like a real boy all on his own, and that he even cared enough to try, but now all he can think about is their shitty pack of long-lost cousins. Gwen, Mark, Johnny, fucking demon-possessed Christian. Sam hunted with them, trusted them for some reason (or didn't trust them and hunted with them anyway, which is possibly worse). Hunted under Samuel's leadership. Under Crowley's direction, for fuck's sake. None of them gave one shit about him; none of them would have risked anything to protect him. To be fair, Sam certainly felt the same way about them. Anyone from that cutthroat crew is lucky to still be alive. Christ.

"Sounds like a good party," Dean mutters. "If we're lucky, Grandpa will show up, so I can finally shoot him in the face."

Sam chuckles. "Yeah, I wouldn't mind plugging the old bastard myself. Sounds like the perfect Campbell family reunion."

 _I don't even know what Sam is,_ Samuel had said, his lip curling with revulsion. What the fuck did Sam do when they were hunting together? Was Samuel's willingness to throw Sam to the wolves evidence of how awful Samuel was, or how awful _Sam_ was?

Dean's hands go white-knuckled tense on the steering wheel as he adds another entry to the list of things he needs to not think about.

~~~

They dump one bag of ice into the cooler and empty the rest over the draug's corpse, covering the whole mess with the tarps again.

"You know, Dean, this works," Sam says.

"Huh? Yeah, sure. Wait until dark, chop it up and burn it on the island, dump it in the gulf. It's a good plan."

"No, not the draug. This." Sam motions to the two of them. "You and me. Hunting together. We make a good team."

"Oh. Yeah." But it's not the hunting part that's the problem.

Sam nods enthusiastically, as if Dean had said that out loud. "I know still need some help in the empathy department. You're gonna have to be my Jiminy Cricket for a while. But we still make a good team. We can still do this. Just like this."

"I know, Sam, it's just…" Dean runs a hand down his face and finishes his beer and tries to think of a way out of this conversation. "It's complicated," he finally says, and almost winces at how lame that argument is.

"It's not really all that complicated. Yeah, I know, you want your Winchester family reunion. But you gotta believe what Heaven _and_ Hell are telling you about putting my soul back. I mean, you understand why I wouldn't be on board with that decision, right?"

But it's not this Sam's decision. The decision belongs to the brother who asked Dean to kill him if that was the way to stop him from turning into a monster. That's still the choice Sam would make. Isn't it? Wouldn't Sam want Dean to _try_ to put him back together rather than letting RoboSam run free, damn the consequences?

And yet, this guy beside him is Sam too, more or less. Maybe this _is_ his Winchester family reunion, sitting right here, looking at him with something that's almost (but not quite) his brother's puppy dog eyes. Maybe Bobby's right, and this is as good as it gets. Maybe Dean has to let go of his Sam, and let the best part of him go to Heaven, where he belongs. Maybe he has to give up on his best case scenario.

(Maybe Dean wouldn't even be in this situation if he hadn't already given up on Sam, if he hadn't stood by, helpless and impotent, and let him jump into the pit.)

"You know will happen if that fucked-up soul you're so crazy about gets stuffed back inside me," Sam says. "Are you that sure it's the right thing to do?"

Goddammit. Dean's not sure about anything at all.

"Sam, you know I'm never gonna do anything to hurt you."

Sam holds his eyes for a heartbeat, then nods once and looks away. "Yeah. Right. I know you wouldn't deliberately take me out or anything. But I also know that when it comes right down to it, if you think you have a chance to get him back, you're willing to let me be… collateral damage."

He turns back to Dean and stares at him like he's daring him to deny that. But Dean can't say a word.

~~~

After sundown, Dean unceremoniously chops through the draug's neck and shoves its head into a heavy plastic trash bag. He feels the ghost of its cold, fetid breath on his cheek as it whispers its last words. _There is but one path… dode og doden…_ dode og doden. Whatever the hell that means.

(But it means _something.)_

He lets Sam chop off the arms and legs, because he may as well put those new muscles of his to good use, and they load the remains into more trash bags. Not surprisingly, draug pieces don't smell any better than a whole draug. They heave the bags into the back of the truck and cover them with the tarps. Sam takes the lead again, with Dean following him as close as common sense allows, over the long bridge to St. George Island, and then down to the channel that cuts the island in two. There are more big, expensive houses now, and fewer old cabins, but there's still enough construction equipment to provide a decent place to hide both the truck and the Impala.

Sam "borrows" a boat again, just like last time. They carefully distribute the bags and equipment (and yes, the beer) around the boat and row across the narrow channel to the uninhabited half of the island. There are fewer trees on this side of the channel, and they have to row a lot farther than they'd like, but eventually they find enough coverage to make Dean comfortable. They drag the offal-laden rowboat onto the shore and up into the shadow of a small patch of scrubby trees. Normally they'd just build a pyre right on the surface, but they don't want the glow of the fire to be visible from a distance, so they have to dig a pit first. "Like digging a goddamn grave," Dean mutters, because he doesn't want to think about other types of holes in the ground. Other pits.

They're only four or five feet down before Dean declares it good enough and climbs out to start pitching the contents of the trash bags into the hole. Sam shrugs compliantly and joins in, grimacing at the smell. Dean dumps a canister of salt and a couple of quarts of lighter fluid onto the pile of draug parts, then lights a book of matches and tosses it in. "Wonder how long it's gonna take for this mess to burn down," he mutters. But when he turns around, Sam's not there to hear him; he has wandered down to the shoreline. Dean's not inclined to join him, so he chugs a beer, checks to see which way the smoke from his fire is drifting, and plops down into the sand on the other side of the pyre.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/housefullofbooks/48091173242/in/photostream/)

Sam wades out into the Gulf until the water is up to his chest, then bends over and dunks his head, scrubbing at his scalp with his fingers. And Dean should probably do that too, should wash off the sweat and the last of the draug goo, but right now he doesn't want to get up. This side of the island is calm and peaceful. As long as you stay upwind of the godawful smelly waterlogged monster burning down to ash, it's a nice place to lay on the beach and savor that slight separation from reality that comes from a good beer buzz. It's the closest thing to a vacation he's likely to get. Sam seems to agree, coming out of the water to stretch out on the sand next Dean.

"We should have come to this side of the island the first time we came over here," Dean says.

"We did," Sam says. Then he laughs. "But I guess you wouldn't remember. You were dead."

Something cold tiptoes down Dean's spine. "What?"

"The first time you and I came here, you were dead. It was after that whole thing with Gabriel, when he was pretending to be the Trickster," Sam says, casual as anything.

"So you brought me here. After I died."

"Yeah. After you died the last time, and I realized I wasn't going to wake up on a Tuesday again." Sam sits up and brushes the sand out of his damp hair. "I put you in the car and headed north on 75 and, I don't know, just drove for a while. Then I realized I had to bury your body somewhere. But the whole east coast of Florida is too populated. And I didn't want to dig a grave in a gator-infested swamp, so central Florida was out. So I turned west, and eventually I saw a sign for a national park, and I thought that'd be good."

Sam describes his actions as though they happened to someone else, as though he was't sitting here, on a beach where Real Sam brought Dean's body, casually recounting a day so horrible that Real Sam couldn't even talk about it.

Dean shouldn't know this.

"So this is where you buried me?" he says, quietly.

"Just up the beach." Sam points, as if it means nothing. "There's a tree standing all by itself. You might even be able to see it from here." Dean doesn't turn to look. He doesn't want to see it. "It seemed nice and private. Quiet. Safe." Sam shrugs. "I don't know, man. I'm not even sure what I was thinking. Honestly, I was pretty fucked up."

"Well, I mean." Dean tries to clear a lump in his throat but it won't budge. "I died, so, yeah. You were fucked up." Because Dean being dead is supposed to fuck Sam right up. That's the rules of the game. You die, your brother is inconsolable.

"Extremely fucked up," Sam laughs softly. "Jesus. Looking back on that? Shit like that? That's what makes me think that maybe it's better like this. The way I am now."

"Without a soul."

"Without the nonsense that comes _with_ a soul. Without all the sadness, and the guilt, and the fear. And part of me knows that's wrong. I mean, you're supposed to have a soul, so it must have been better when I had one. But I'm a better hunter without it. And it just seems like life is easier. You know what I'm talking about. Remember when you were fresh out of Hell, and you wished you couldn't feel anything? You recognized it."

Yes, but that was about Hell. That was about not feeling Hell. It wasn't about feeling so little about _anything_ that you could sit here and laugh about that time your brother died.

 _We keep each other human,_ he told Sam once. After they accidentally cracked Hell open. After Zachariah showed him what he was capable of without Sam at his side, showed him what Sam could do without him. We keep each other human. And Jesus, he shouldn't have needed that. He shouldn't have needed Zachariah to convince him to look out for his little brother. When Sam called him and told him he was Lucifer's chosen vessel, he should have jumped in the car right then and there, should have driven non-stop until he was at Sam's door. He shouldn't have had any priority other than saving Sam from the literal Devil.

And in the end, Dean utterly failed at both of those jobs. He didn't save Sam from the Devil and he didn't keep him human.

Sam turns back toward the tree marking Dean's grave. "I marked the spot so I could find it when I came back, in case the tree disappeared somehow. I put the coordinates on my phone, I took pictures from every angle to make sure I could find the exact spot again. I was terrified I wouldn't find it. I was seriously fucked up." He laughs again. Because it's funny now, apparently.

"I'm sorry, Sam."

"Nothing to be sorry about," Sam replies easily. "It wasn't real. None of it really happened."

"Yeah, you're right. Doesn't mean anything."

"Nope." RoboSam smiles like he doesn't have a care in the world. Because, well, he doesn't. The experience Sam never would talk about, _couldn't_ talk about, is literally just another hunt to this guy. A funny story.

It was only a few weeks ago that Sam sat at that picnic table with Dean and said _I'm not your brother; I'm not Sam_ and _I don't even really care about you_ and _I've killed innocent people in the line of duty._ Dean had shoved all that aside at the time because it didn't matter. Because Sam was going to get his soul reinstalled, and it wasn't going to matter that RoboSam was literally the opposite of Sam in every way that counted. There wasn't any reason to even consider hanging onto RoboSam.

"I need some shut-eye," Dean says. "You can take watch, Mr. I-Don't-Sleep." Sam tilts his head at Dean like a goddam angel, or something else that isn't human, and, well. If the shoe fits. Dean closes his eyes and pretends to doze, though he's not sure he'll actually ever be comfortable sleeping in RoboSam's presence again.

 _It might kill the little bit of Sam you got left,_ Bobby had said, but that's not true. If someone gets killed, it won't be Dean's brother. He's already gone.

~~~

The draug is burned down to greasy bones and bits of charred flesh by the time the sun comes up. When the remains are cool enough, they use the shovel to scoop the mess onto a tarp and load it into the little rowboat. This time Dean rows as Sam scatters the remains over the water, making sure to spread them out over a large area. Neither speaks much. Maybe Sam (not Sam) thinks he won the argument. Or maybe he realizes Dean has nothing left to say to him.

~~~

They get back to the Impala, reeking of of smoke and sweat and seaweed (and draug, still the lingering odor of draug, Christ) and don't stop driving until they're in Georgia. Dean's choice. He doesn't think of the loose end they left behind until he pulls up at the first motel across the state line.

"Hey, what about Marta? You need to say bye or anything?"

"No. She wouldn't be expecting that. I mean, we both knew what this was." He turns to Dean, his face suddenly earnest. "Unless you think I should." Because of course Dean is his own personal Jiminy Cricket, and he's trying to hard to be a real boy. Isn't he? But this doesn't feel like Sam wanting to do the right thing. It feels like Sam (not Sam) wanting to _look like_ he wants to do the right thing. It feels like RoboSam saying, _See, I'm him, I can be him._ Except he's not him. He's the guy who laughed about how fucked up Sam was when Dean died. And this stranger who's trying so hard to save his own life is a poor substitute for the brother who would, who _did,_ freely give his own life in order to save everyone else's.

"Nah." Dean's voice scrapes its way out of his dry throat. "I'm sure it's fine."

RoboSam nods, satisfied.

(The thing is, the draug didn't say _you'll never get him back._ It said _there is but one way._ That doesn't mean it can't happen. It means exactly the opposite. It means there _is_ a way, and Dean just has to figure out what it is. And finally, maybe, he has a lead.)

RoboSam doesn't dispute Dean's claim to the first shower, because he follows Sam's habits and patterns, except in every single way that actually matters. When Dean has scrubbed as much as he can stand to scrub, leaving his skin pink and tender, he relinquishes the bathroom. He doesn't make a move until he hears the water running again. Sam will have to wash his hair twice, at the very least, to get the stench off of him. It will take time.

Sam's suit jacket is packed neatly in his bag. Agent Plant's card, with Marta's number scribbled on the back, is still in the pocket. Dean punches the number into his phone, then slips the card back into Sam's pocket and steps outside. He's relieved and a little surprised when she answers. She's not using the accent, so she must not be at work. Which means she can probably speak freely.

"Marta, it's Agent Page from the FBI. Listen, I wanted to let you know that we've closed the case. It's, ah, it's not going to be made public, and I can't really give you any of the details. But you can tell your uncles… tell them it's over. Tell them they were smart to take the precautions they did, but they don't have to worry any more. Okay?"

"Precautions?" She sounds skeptical.

"Yes. I think they'll understand. And keep this number. If anything happens again, anything similar, even if it's just that the smell comes back, give me a call. Or give my number to your uncles, and tell them I can help with this kind of thing."

"Okay, well, thank you. So much. For whatever you did." She doesn't point out that she's already got Sam's number. Doesn't mention him at all. So either he was right that goodbyes were unnecessary by mutual accord, or whatever happened between them was messed up enough that she's not interested in further contact. Dean really hopes it was the first one.

He's almost afraid to bring up what he really needs to talk about.

"Hey, Marta? Your name tag said you speak Norwegian. Is that true?"

"Oh, sure I do. I'm not an expert, but I'm conversational. Why?"

"Just curious about something I heard. I thought it might be Norwegian. It sounded like _dode og doden._ Mean anything to you?"

"That's, ah, _død og Døden._ It means death and Death. But _død_ means dying. When you die. And _Døden_ is a singular noun. It means _the_ Death. You know. The Grim Reaper. Skeleton in a black cloak with a scythe. That Death."

"Okay. Yeah. Thanks."

"No problem. Thank you again, Agent Page."

"Yeah. Take care, Marta. Remember to call me if anything like this happens again."

Dean ends the call and stares at his phone. Okay… death and Death. Okay.

It's a start.

~~~

_**Epilogue** _

Dean lets his plan marinate for a couple of days, hoping something better will come to mind, but as he expected, nothing does. He takes advantage of another of Sam's showers to make the call.

"Hey, Bobby, I need to find someone who'd be willing to kill me."

Bobby snorts. "Lucky for you, I got a long list. Including myself sometimes."

"Very funny. What about someone who could kill me temporarily and then bring me back to life?"

"That's a shorter list. What the hell are you up to, boy?"

"Do you know someone or not?"

"I might know a guy… old friend of your dad. Assuming he's still in the business. But you've got a shitload of explaining to do before I give you his number."

"I just. I need to talk to somebody."

"Somebody you gotta be dead to talk to?"

"Pretty much."

"Dean, I don't know what you think you're gonna—"

"Look, Bobby," Dean interrupts. "My brother is in Hell. I might have a way to get him out. What do you think you can say that's gonna stop me?"

Bobby sighs. "You Winchesters are gonna be the death of me. Get your ass up here, pronto. I ain't doin' this over the phone."

 

~~~

(Dean's life is still a joke, but it might be getting better.)

_Knock knock._

_Who's there?_

_Dean._

_Dean who?_

_Dean Winchester, and I'm coming for my brother, you son of a bitch._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Camping, hiking, etc. are allowed the on sanctuary of Little St. George Island. But the more protected island worked better for my story, and as I am the lord and supreme ruler of this little imaginary world, so it shall be.
> 
> Despite any opinions voiced by characters in this story, I really do adore Disneyworld. And they really do forbid adults from wearing costumes in the parks, though I doubt Men in Black is something they'd have a problem with. (Once again, my world, my rules.) The Maelstrom ride is no longer there (it closed in 2014 and an attraction based on the move Frozen took its place), but as far as I know, the wine and beer kiosk in France still exists. I've never had the Grey Goose Citron Slush, but I'm sure it's wonderful. The Grand Marnier Slush is to die for and I highly recommend it.
> 
> The song Dean sings in Disneyworld is "Living in the Limelight" by Rush.


End file.
